The Music of the Night
by kacryan001
Summary: It's over now the Music of the Night! It's a lie... No one has seen Christine, the Phantom, or Raoul since the fateful events five years ago that destryed the Opera Populaire. Plaguing her dreams, mind, and voice what will happen when SHE has no choice but to return to her past. The REAL music has yet to begin...


_Hi, Please review after you read. Please! I was just doing some writing and this came into mind. Don't know how it'll turn out yet, but I'll try to get the next chapter up soon. For me to do that I want to see some reviews. Read, and enjoy!_

The Palace Opera House was a magnificent structure. Once standing so tall only the architect and workers would've had to worry about it. It didn't matter its size as it was a monument to the great tastes as well as architecture shown throughout all of Paris. Its fine angelic statues, even from the rooftop could be seen for miles around. It stood a proud symbol of its culture, as much as the Eiffel Tower. As if the outer appearance, with its fine exquisite aristocratic details, wasn't once impressive enough to stand on its own, the interior truly showed the splendor. Double door opened to the spectacular entrance into the foyer. A window let the bright lights shine in contrast to the darkness of the theater. The grand staircase leading to the boxes where only the most important guests, or those who had the cash to pay, were allowed a proud diva all on its own was. The other fine seating was to the left and right into the other world of glimmers and fantasies. Though there was always more than met the eyes. Even the most frequent visitors to the plays couldn't even have guessed what took place below, and back stage. Once a crying chorus girl, who rose to become a tormented confused maiden trapped between a triangle of innocence, purity, and darkness; seduction, laid behind the curtain; the choice between a childhood sweetheart, and a dark angel.

A woman pondered these things of old, looking upon the ruined house. The charred black where the fire had all but consumed them still remained as it once was; a living memory to the dreadful and unspeakable events that occurred that night. She was clad in all black, and a cloak covered her face and hair. She was not uncommon in crowds, and she didn't stand out as anything special. A young man, a lamplighter, watched as she just stood there and then sat gently upon the steps of the once grand Palace. It was getting darker with each passing moment, and it was difficult, but he could just make her out. She wasn't one he would pick out as being anything unusual either, as woman dressed in black were not uncommon. Hell, women wore black every day morning marriages, children, youth, wealth, and even more so frequently lost lovers. He only wondered which she could be missing. Her hands that were the only unveiled part of her that this man could see were her hands. He wasn't a pervert that had a hand fetish, but as a man of hard labor he had come to admire hands. Her hands did not appear rough or hard from work, but were quite docile and soft. It brought a curious sadness to his eyes. What could've made such a thing wear black? He wouldn't have given this woman much of a glance over, however at nearly six or seven, (he didn't know for sure) the streets were normally vacant. She was one more person than was out regularly. He shrugged and moved from where he had placed his ladder up to the next lamppost to light it. As curious and odd as it was, it was none of his business. He was the type to keep repeating to himself to "Do the job, and don't ask questions," as he always broke that rule. He kept lighting lamppost after lamppost till he reached the once right on front of the woman. He found it just his luck to always end up with curiosity in his face, and it was what always got him into trouble. He went up the ladder to light the post, and he couldn't help but peer over at the woman who was so dazed as to take notice of him. She was young, he observed, and maybe her early twenties. Her heart shaped face was beautiful from what he could see. She had thick full lashes framing her chestnut brown eyes, flawless skin, and lips that were lightest touch of pink. He caught a glimpse of her rich curls which he could just imagine glistened in the sunlight. 'Wow, she's a real gem, if I've ever seen one.' He would say she was a blinding sight in the darkness that was to come. He leaned against the lamppost and couldn't help but kept staring at her. Beauty was seen all through Paris, yet her modesty, and womanly features would attract many. He considered himself for once lucky to be sticking his large nose in something that didn't concern him, especially when it let him glance upon this angel. Her eyes peered over, noticing she was being watched, lowered her cloak around to hide her face. 'Now what' in the world could get this pretty thing all shy?' He came down from his ladder, and made an extravagant bow with his cap coming off his head to reveal his rich brown hair of his own before his green eyes came back up hoping to catch another glimpse of her radiance. She seemed familiar, and yet he couldn't place his finger on the thought. Her eyes showed glimpses of planning on leaving, so he took his chance while he could. He spoke with a light, carefree voice. "Mademoiselle, you are a radiating sight on this fine mornin. Wha' brings you out 'ere ?" He took note to see how she would react. She seemed as though the wrong word would send her straight to flight, fluttering away as fast as she could. Indeed she was thinking about fleeing, then decided herself that just running would only cause more problems, and would be very rude of her. She was never one to be outgoing, however she never would intentionally be rude.

" Thank you for such flattery, however I do not deserve it. I'm merely… visiting memories." Her voice was calm, like a bell. The man did notice, however, that when she paused her eyes became more distant and her voice filled with a wisdom that made it sound like honey. In all way her voice was much attracting to anyone who heard it. He found it the most charming voice he'd ever heard, and was in his right mind to tell her, but stopped. ' No need to scare the little lady.'

" Ah! So I see. That here's the 'old Opera 'ouse tha is. Before the fire it was a grand place Mademoiselle. Went to un myself. Saw Christine Daae, wha a pretty bird. Shame though, no on seen er in five year. Wha bout you Mademoiselle? You seen er?" It was true that he had once gotten the pleasure to see Christine Daae, the opera legacy, perform, but so had many others. The last bit he had meant as a joke as it appeared she had all but vanished from the stage, and had seemed to vanish from sight, yet the woman did not appear to take it so. She looked away and struggled in vain not to show her discomfort at such talk. Despite her resistance to wishing to answer she did in a strong though soft voice.

"I saw her, once. It has been quite some time since I've seen her. Perhaps one day something will bring her back. How long has it been since this occurred?" She was referring so plainly to the disastrous fire that had destroyed the monument leaving a ruined shell. The lamplighter looked briefly at the corpse of the once famous Opera Populaire, and then returned his gaze upon the woman.

"It's been near… five years. It is 1875." Her eyes shifted as if trying to grasp the time changes. She muttered to herself something that he could only just hear being "' has it really been that long?"' The sun was setting, on the evening, that hung over the vacant streets of Paris and the lamplighter realized that he was getting behind on his job. If he didn't resume he could only just imagine the scolding he'd get from the daily night patrol. That would only get him in trouble or worse; fired. He bowed once again to the lovely woman, before wishing her well and going on his merry way. However, he kept looking over his shoulder past to keep watching and staring at her. For some reason she seemed familiar, and had a transfixing aura around her. He couldn't help himself. He stared at her mesmerized by some unknown force. She stood there for the longest time. The woman was crying. Her sobs could be heard on the silent street, and her cries would touch any man's heart. The lamplighter's own heartbeat was quickening and aching hearing the sadness. She laid a something on the entrance step of the Populaire before turning slowly and walked past the man before going down one of the lamp lit streets. Her direction would've been of little consequence, but when she passed he could fully see her face. It was truly a face one would've called an angel's. Her tears glistened like dew and all it would make you want to do was dry them. The man finished his job, and returned to where he and the strange mysterious woman had stood conversing. She was such an odd pretty creature. He looked upon what she had left.' An even stranger trinket to leave behind,' he thought. A red rose laid there gently upon the concrete steps. Wrapped gracefully around the stem were a black satin ribbon, and a tiny note. The lamplighter was too much of a curious fellow, so he opened the little parchment. The handwriting was indeed graceful, though slightly hard for him to read. It was a curious letter. He didn't understand the meaning at all, so he casually threw it alongside the rose, wide open for anyone who walked in the shadows could see.

**The Music of the Night has its own plans…..**

_I do not own anything written about. Credit goes to where its due including Gaston Leroux the author of __Le Fantôme de l'Opéra, also Andrew Llyod webber for his oncredible music that makes this truly come alive!_


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